Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  The family left the table, still in conversation. Beatrix linked arms with Peter and Ellen. Tom followed with his father, who gently pulled him back.

  ‘Your mother will be more than happy to do a repeat tour for you, Tom.’ Sir Ralph smiled. ‘Anyway, there’s not room in there for the whole family. Let’s you and me have a chat.’

  Tom bristled. What will it be this time? He was wary of his father’s ‘little chats’. Why couldn’t he be left in peace to run the warehouse and make the Tallants lots of money? Isn’t that what his father wanted?

  They sat by the open fire at the rear of the hall where they had dined. Wood, not the sulphurous sea coal, was burning in the grate. He appreciated the gentle warmth and comforting smell.

  ‘Did you get a good price for your cargo from India, Tom?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I am sure you will know that from your contacts at the Exchange. What’s really on your mind?’

  Sir Ralph paused and gave his son a searching look. He spoke again, in measured tones. ‘Have you heard any more about the Merchant Adventurers’ inquiry into the death of Joseph Venell?’

  ‘Oh, that. No, it seems to have blown over.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Sir Ralph replied evenly, holding Tom’s gaze.

  ‘I met their agent a few weeks ago, as you know,’ Tom replied. ‘He wanted my advice on a damn fool theory about Sir Joseph being killed by falcons! I told him it was impossible and haven’t heard any more about it. Didn’t take to the agent. Unpleasant fellow.’

  ‘That would be Robert Petty?’ Sir Ralph asked.

  Tom was surprised. ‘Why, yes, but how did you know that?’

  ‘An educated guess, Tom. And if I may make another, you had best assume that until Sir Joseph’s death has been explained, Robert Petty and members of the merchant community will not feel it has "blown over”. The death of a senior member of the Merchant Adventurers, who was also an Alderman of the City of London, is not an everyday occurrence, and when it occurs in such unusual circumstances there is talk of little else, and that continues to this day. Have you not heard it in the Exchange?’

  Tom realised few people had spoken to him about Sir Joseph on his frequent visits to the Royal Exchange, which now struck him as odd.

  ‘No, you haven’t, have you?’ his father said. ‘I feared as much. Why might that be? Why would people not wish to be seen discussing the death of Sir Joseph Venell with Thomas Tallant?’

  Sir Ralph’s tone had become strident, betraying his concern. He lowered his voice.

  ‘Tom, I know your intention was to help the investigation but city gossips rarely let the truth obstruct a good rumour. Any involvement with the inquiry associates you with Sir Joseph’s death. That alone is enough to get idle tongues wagging. He was a wool trader. You are one of the new breed—the spice merchants. Rivalry exists between both. We are all battling for berths along the Thames. You know the competition for prime space. Maybe, the gossips whisper, rivalry has gone too far? Many wool merchants are hurting in the current trading market and they’ll look for anyone to blame for their ills. Who better than an upstart spice trader, so full of himself and his easy profits? Let’s see one of them get their comeuppance, particularly when they… ’ and here Sir Ralph reduced his voice to a whisper ‘… are not truly English.’

  Tom’s mouth was open but no words came out. Sir Ralph leant forward and patted his knee.

  ‘Tom, you need to learn more about the English and the Dutch—how we get along, and how, sometimes, we don’t. Wool merchants have good reason not to like the Dutch. Twenty years ago the English traders needed fresh markets and started exporting more dyed cloths. The Dutch banned their import into the United Provinces and many blamed that for the collapse of the plan shortly afterwards. A few years later the Dutch and English were competing for trade in the Moluccas and an English colony was overrun by the Dutch. There were stories of death and torture and the merchants did not let the Dutch forget. The East Indies Company displays a painting of the incident in their building to this day. And Dutch merchants are among the biggest moneylenders in the city, never a popular occupation. A number have even been brought before the Privy Council, accused of taking bullion out of the country and undermining our finances.’

  Tom’s anger flared and he lowered his gaze to the giant stone flags on the hall floor. Sir Ralph leaned still closer. His tone softened.

  ‘Tom, you must tread carefully and keep your wits about you, particularly in the City. Your mother has lived unmolested in this country for over twenty-five years. She feels at home in England. But the City can be a snake pit. It’s a world of its own, with its own rules. You must never forget that. People far cleverer than you and I have been chewed up and spat out, broken. Do you understand?’

  Tom took a deep breath, then nodded. They stood and embraced, holding each other for some time. Sir Ralph finally moved away.

  ‘Oh, and Tom, I saw that look in your eye when Peter was talking about America. The trading possibilities are interesting, are they not? We must discuss how to work together and exploit them if Peter starts a colony there.’

  Tom smiled.

  ‘Good.’ Sir Ralph clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But first, how would you like to become a Member of Parliament?’

  Chapter 4

  March 1640

  The Tallant warehouse

  Thomas Tallant’s wish was granted. The family was together for much of the bleak winter of 1640. Trade was disrupted while the weather worsened, and Peter discovered that finding backing for a new colony in America was taking longer than anticipated.

  One morning, following another bitterly cold night late in March, Tom stood by his front door and surveyed the lane up to Thames Street. The ground was stone hard with all colour drained from the trees and bushes. London looked tired and listless, save for a dusting of sparkling frost. Tom’s breath steamed as the icy air scorched his lungs.

  Tom had lately been considering his father’s invitation to become a Member of Parliament. He had thought little about Sir Ralph’s offer at the time because King Charles had ruled without a Parliament for over ten years. However now it was to be recalled. Apparently, the King was completely out of funds, and for taxes he needed Parliament’s assent.

  Elections were imminent and Sir Ralph wanted Tom to take over his old seat. The Commons would be useful for contacts and business, and Parliamentary duties were not onerous. Tom was starting to like the idea of being the next Tallant on the Members’ benches.

  Meanwhile, despite his father’s concern four months earlier, Tom had heard no more about the Venell investigation. It appeared, after all, that the matter had blown over. The old man was starting to fuss too much in his old age!

  He noticed a sound like sobbing coming from inside the house and turned to see Isaac approaching.

  ‘It’s the kitchen maid, Master Thomas. Another couple of stiffs found on the wharf this morning. One was a young good-for-nothing who often came a-knocking after scraps. The maid, being soft-hearted, used to give the whoreson a crust or two. Looks like him and some old lag had a good day’s thieving yesterday because the two of them, by all accounts, had a skinful last night. Came down to the warehouses for a warm but were locked out. Silly buggers curled up on the wharf under some sacking. Coldest place in the city. No wonder they copped it.’

  Tom recalled lying warm in his bed during the night. Less than a hundred yards away, two men were freezing to death. They wouldn’t have knocked on his door for shelter because he wouldn’t have answered. Everyone knew the rules. London was a city driven by fear. Fear of disease, robbery and deprivation. You didn’t offer a helping hand to a brother or sister in need in case you were pulled down into the clawing, heaving mob yourself.

  He left Isaac to comfort the maid and entered the ground floor office where the groom Andrew Lamkin was listening intently as apprentice Samuel Barnes read from a pamphlet. Samuel was the second son of a yeoman farmer, a tenant on the Berkshire estate
s of Tom’s Uncle John. He received the best education his village could provide before moving to London to begin his apprenticeship in the Tallant warehouse over two years ago. Samuel Barnes could read and write better than any of the warehouse crew and was diligent, able and a quick learner. He soon earned Isaac’s trust and became the first person other than Tom allowed access to the manager’s warehouse ledgers. It wasn’t long before Isaac was relying on Sam’s neat bookkeeping and facility with numbers.

  ‘What news, Sam?’ Tom called out as he entered the room.

  Andrew looked over. ‘Sam’s got hold of a coranto, Master Thomas. He’s been reading it to me.’

  ‘What does it say, Sam? Let me see.’ The news sheet would only have foreign news as the King banned reports of domestic events. Sometimes they contained information about the never-ending war between the Dutch and the Spanish.

  ‘Where did you pick this up, Sam? By the north door at St. Paul’s?’ The cathedral’s churchyard was a popular place to buy news books and pamphlets.

  ‘No, Master Thomas. I couldn’t afford such a thing. The stationer, Master Sheffard, had copies in his print shop. This one hadn’t come off the press clean. Look, you can see the ink is missing on part of the second page. So when I saw it had a story about the Dutch, Master Thomas, I asked him if I could keep it.’

  Sam Barnes was built like a yeoman farmer: broad shoulders, large hands and sinewy forearms covered in ginger freckles matching the shock of red hair that refused to lie flat on his head. He was the image of his father whom Tom had met when Sam came to London. He pictured the farmer now and felt uncomfortable.

  The Barnes family had sacrificed a great deal to send Sam to London. His elder brother would inherit the farm one day and now worked many more hours to make up for Sam’s absence. The cost of the apprenticeship, including food and lodging, was another strain on the family resources. The first son was the family’s best hope of a secure future but Samuel was their back-up plan. An apprenticeship to a city merchant—what a wonderful opportunity!

  But Tom could see Sam’s head had been turned. While Tom was in India, young Samuel Barnes’s heart had been stolen. He still trained to be a warehouseman, but his ardent wish was to become a stationer. Tom assumed the spark had come from his love of reading and the opportunity to work with words. He volunteered his help at Sheffard’s as often as they could take him, even after a hard day in the warehouse. Sheffard was one of many London stationers now producing corantos and the printer was eager for Sam’s help when he discovered how well Sam could read.

  Tom checked on his work in the warehouse and was forced to admit that Sam continued to be a model apprentice. So what he did in his spare time was his own affair, certainly better than getting into fights with the other apprentices in the Black Dog every night. But Tom could not help feeling a stab of guilt each time he looked at Sam’s trusting face and saw his father smiling back at him.

  Tom scanned the coranto and handed it back to Sam. He climbed the stairs to the first floor store. The weather had eased and a shipment was due to leave for Amsterdam in the morning. It was not a large consignment, mainly ground cinnamon bark. Its price had risen steeply in Amsterdam because of the war in Europe—God bless the King’s continuing neutrality—and Tom was supplying Uncle Jonas with additional stock.

  He counted the sacks Sam had gathered for dispatch to the waiting ship. Tom reached the end of the row and stopped. There were eight more sacks propped against the cinnamon, slightly smaller and heavier. Puzzled, he checked the cargo manifest recorded in Sam’s neat hand and sighed, as he recognised one of his great ideas coming back to haunt him.

  While in Goa, Tom had found a new spice with a distinctive colour and aroma. The Indian merchant assured him it was highly popular in Goan dishes. Tom had a little space left in the hold and, excited by his find, bought eight sacks. This spice could be the next to sweep London, all the rage at the tables of the rich and famous. His fortune would be made, as the trader promised him monopoly supply on very favourable terms.

  However, that was now unlikely as the city had shown no interest in the wonders of turmeric, despite months of hard selling by Tom in the Royal Exchange. He finally stopped when he saw that ‘Tom’s Folly’ was becoming a joke among rival traders.

  Tom knew his desire for instant riches had once again betrayed him but his pride would not let him dump the unwanted spice in the Thames, despite it taking valuable warehouse space. As a final throw of the dice, his father suggested offering it on the European market. And so here were the eight sacks of Tom’s Folly lying forlornly at his feet, ready for shipment to Amsterdam. Tom aimed a kick at the final sack in the row, then heard voices and footsteps coming up the stairs. His frustration lifted as he recognised his sister’s laughter among the chatter.

  Ellen was three years Tom’s junior. As the youngest surviving child, and the only girl, she grew up in the wake of her boisterous older brothers. Tom felt a little guilty about Ellen’s exclusion from the games and play of their childhood years. She must have been lonely at times. However, it never clouded her sunny disposition and she clearly loved him and Peter unreservedly. As a result, Tom was hugely protective and proud of his sister. Her entrance into any room brought a smile to his face.

  ‘So here you are hiding, Tom,’ Ellen cried, as she skipped around the cinnamon sacks to embrace him.

  She has mother’s dancing feet, Tom observed, as he gave her a hug.

  ‘We were sitting at home, bored, and so decided to visit my brother Tom, to marvel at the wonders he brings to our shores from around the world.’

  Ellen grinned at her brother and swept her arm around the dusty warehouse with a flourish fit for a treasure trove from the Orient.

  ‘Ellen, ask Tom if he has any unicorn horn.’

  It was Marjorie, one of Ellen’s friends whose parents lived near the Tallant’s house. Marjorie’s question set her and another girl Tom did not know into a fit of laughter.

  ‘Or maybe one of those pin apples?’ Marjorie added, almost incoherent with giggling. Ellen gave Tom an apologetic look.

  ‘I think you mean “pineapple",’ Tom replied, ‘and, no, we do not have any. Actually I have never seen one. My father offered a sack of pepper to the first of his captains to bring one to our table, but unfortunately I was away travelling when it arrived. Ellen can tell you what it was like.’

  ‘An interesting fruit, the pineapple. I hear it has the roughest skin but, inside, the sweetest flesh. Is that true, Ellen?’

  The voice came from the back of the room. Tom had not noticed a fourth person enter from the stairs. She was standing behind the others, her face hidden by the hood of a large, dark blue, fur lined cape. She lifted her pale hands and lowered the hood and, for Tom, the rest of the room disappeared.

  ‘Yes, Elizabeth,’ Ellen replied, ‘the fruit under the skin is quite delicious.’

  Ellen saw Tom was staring at her friend. ‘Brother, forgive me. I forgot you have not met Elizabeth before. Tom, may I introduce Elizabeth Seymour. Her family moved into the manor house in Clerkenwell not long after you left for India. We have become good friends, haven’t we, Elizabeth?’

  Tom had to force himself to concentrate as Ellen and Marjorie asked him endless questions about what was in each sack in the room. There were more squeals as they approached the open loading door and Marjorie pretended to push the other girl. But his gaze constantly returned to Elizabeth Seymour as she slowly walked around the store selecting samples of spices, smelling and examining each closely.

  Even under the cape Tom could see she was little more than five feet tall with a slim waist which he had the most absurd urge to put his arms around. As the room became warmer, Elizabeth undid all but the top clasp of her cape. Tom tried not to stare but stole a glance and saw a pale blue silk dress underneath, gathered at the waist. It didn’t follow the current fashion for whale boning up the front of the bodice, and Tom caught a glimpse of Elizabeth’s natural shape and the fullness of
her breasts. His mouth went dry.

  Her dark brown hair was pinned, flowing down the back of her slender neck, disappearing under the cape in natural curls. Her cheeks had a slight blush but it was Elizabeth Seymour’s eyes that transfixed Tom. They were the rich colour of the earth itself with flecks of emerald green, full of vital life but also an essential truth. He had never seen anything like them.

  Elizabeth was holding a piece of nutmeg. ‘Is it true that most of the world’s nutmeg comes from one small island out in the East Indies?’

  Her voice again. It was clear and soft, but with a husky undertone. Now he was completely undone.

  ‘Err, yes. That is true. The island of Row in the Moluccas,’ he stumbled.

  ‘It must be full of nutmeg trees then, so no room for people. I wonder who looks after the harvest?’

  Tom was about to reply that nutmeg actually grew from the mace tree but he was interrupted by the flustered face of the maid at the top of the stairs. She curtseyed hurriedly to Ellen and the others.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Master Thomas, but there are two gentlemen who have come to call and they are most insistent they see you at once. A matter of the greatest importance, they said.’

  Tom stared at the maid in a daze, then hesitantly excused himself and walked slowly down the stairs, ill prepared for what confronted him in the parlour.

  Standing near the fireplace was the investigator Robert Petty with a smaller, weasel-faced man.

  ‘Mr Tallant. Forgive us for calling without invitation, but we needed to speak to you as a matter of urgency. Please allow me to introduce Mr Nathaniel Franklin. Mr Franklin is a magistrate. He has been appointed by the City’s Aldermanic Court to investigate the death of Sir Joseph Venell. I have been asked by the Merchant Adventurers to provide him with every assistance.’